Jehan
by Unicadia
Summary: Sometimes survival is worse than death. AU post-barricade. T for blood, violence, and a whole lot of angst. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! Despite being extremely busy, I need to keep writing, so here we are. This story is multi-chapter, but it won't be very long so I know I can finish it. Enjoy!**

**See the notes at the end of the chapter for first names.**

**EDIT: I have recently made some small edits to the story, so hopefully it's better now. :)**

**Much love,**

**Unicadia**

* * *

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

Jacques Enjolras hung limp in the officer's grasp, staring at the three friends left to him. No, those three, broken, bloody bodies lying in the street couldn't be his friends. His friends stood tall and proud, laughter on their lips and challenge in their eyes. Where could they be, then, the idiots? He remembered seeing Marius just before he ran back to the Corinth with Jean-Marie and Henri . . . In the back of his mind, he remembered someone that looked like Jean-Marie getting skewered on three bayonets, someone that might have been Henri collapsing just in front of the wine shop, a bullet in the back of his head, but he ignored these seeming memories. He must have been imagining it. Of course.

From something like beyond a dream, he heard the officer snap at the soldier beside him. "Why did you bring these three here? What do you want me to do with them?"

"I thought, sir, we could make an example of them." The soldier sounded young, no older than Jean Prouvaire, perhaps. Jacques's stomach twisted and he threw up on the pavement. The officer shook him, his voice filled with disgust.

"We already made an example of them, in case you did not notice."

The soldier sounded embarrassed. "Oh, I suppose so. Then . . ."

"I have no use for these dirty insurgents, only for the leader." The officer gave Jacques another shake, making his stomach churn even more. "They're all nearly dead anyway. Finish them off. I will be back shortly." He motioned to the other soldiers standing uncertainly to the side. "Come on. Have to deal with this one." The officer shoved Jacques over to them, then turned and marched down the street. The soldiers heaved Jacques up and dragged him after their officer.

Panic rose in Jacques and he craned his head around, trying to look back at the remains of his world. The barricade smoked in the distance, the National Guard searching for survivors. But Jacques knew in the dark, cold depths of his heart that they wouldn't find any. The only survivors were here, kneeling in pools of their own blood. Jacques's eyes filled with them, then clouded as he thought of those who did not survive. Where had the people gone? Did they not still live, like the defiant words Sacha-Josef had carved into the wall only hours before? Did they not live, unlike his friends? Where was the golden, happy future? Where had it all gone? He trembled with rage. No, it wasn't supposed to happen this way.

The figure at the end of the broken line raised his head. The long, chestnut curls matted around his pale, grimy face, his gray eyes full of death. The young soldier standing behind them looked over at Jacques, his face troubled. Something snapped within Jacques. He screamed and he couldn't stop. "Jean-Marie! Jean-Marie! Don't kill him! He's my best friend! Don't kill him! Jean-Marie!" He twisted in his captors' holds, struggling to escape. They grasped his arms and pulled him away.

"Shut up, boy."

Tears blinded Jacques as he continued struggling, kicking, screaming, "Jean-Marie! Jean-Marie! Barthélémy! Sacha-Josef!"

One of the soldier slapped him across the face. He didn't even notice. He did not stop screaming, not even when they turned the corner and he could no longer see his friends.

Three gunshots shattered the fragments of Jacques's world.

He stopped screaming.

* * *

They took him to a dark cell somewhere. Strange, rough men yelled at him, kicked him, asked him questions. He did not answer them, did not cry out. He was not there. He was back on a lonely barricade in a bloody Paris street, just hours before it all ended.

_"We're all going to die, Combeferre," he whispered._

_ "I know that. They know that." A soft, sad smile. "But you always knew it, right?"_

_ "I do not mind remaining here, dying for what I believe in. But the world needs you, Combe – Jean-Marie. Go. Live." The last word barely escaped his lips. "Please."_

_ "If you stay, then I will stay." _

He should have made him leave. Why didn't he? Sitting there, alone in the damp cell, Jacques relived the barricade, over and over, every time trying to figure out where he went wrong, what he could have done differently, how they might have won that day, if there was any possibility that Jean-Marie Combeferre could have lived.

There were things, oh, many little things. He could have spent more time recruiting beforehand so their numbers would have been greater. He could have bribed Gavroche into staying away from the barricade. He could have been more aware of those around him and kept René from getting shot that first night, and Jean Prouvaire from getting captured. There were a million little things. But would that have kept the cannons from tearing their fragile castle of tables and chairs apart? In the end, he only knew that despite everything else, if the people had come when they had called, they would be standing on the other side of that barricade now – not behind bars, not in shallow mass graves – but in freedom.

Every night, he dreamed of his last three friends, the last he saw of them, lying in the street moments from death. Barthélémy Joly, his throat partially slit by a bayonet, both legs broken beneath him. Sacha-Josef Feuilly, unconscious from a severe head wound, leaning on Joly's shoulder. And Jean-Marie Combeferre, his torso pierced by three bayonet wounds, his life's blood draining in front of him. Jacques would never be able to unsee those haunted eyes – eyes that knew Death was whispering in his ear.

* * *

One day – he did not know how long it had been, only that it was long enough for a beard to grow – one of the strange, rough men came to his cell and slammed the door open. "Jacques Enjolras."

Jacques remained seated on the floor, staring at the opening. That name couldn't belong to him. Jacques Enjolras fought on barricades. He didn't sit stupidly in the king's prison, wasting away when there were people dying in the streets.

The man glared at him. "You have been bailed out. Now get out from there."

Jacques unsteadily rose to his feet and stumbled out, his mind spinning. Who would bail him out? His father had disowned him and he had not heard from his mother in years. Perhaps his father had had a change of heart. The man led Jacques down the dark hall and out of the building. Jacques blinked in the sunlight he had forgotten for so long. The warmth felt strange and cold upon his skin and he did not know if he should be grateful or repulsed.

"Enjolras! I'm so glad you're alive! When they said they had caught the leader of the insurgents, I thought it couldn't possibly be, but then . . . well, in any case, once I knew you were alive, I had to bail you out."

Jacques turned and saw a man standing in front of him. He blinked. It was that love-sick boy that Henri befriended, Marius Pontmercy. He blinked again. Hadn't he seen Marius get shot as he ran back to the wine shop? Hadn't he seen him collapse to the ground, and inwardly curse himself for yet another casualty?

"Marius . . ."

Marius strode forward and grasped Jacques's shoulders in a partial embrace. "It's good to see you again."

Words never failed Jacques, but now they did. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he had never spoken during his entire stay in the prison. "But you're . . . dead."

Marius laughed, a low, sad laugh. "Nay. Cosette – oh, you know Cosette? The girl that . . . well, she's my wife now. Her father, M. Va – ah, Fauchelevant, was there at the barricade. Do you remember? The very strong old man who took care of the inspector? Well, he rescued me. Grace of God, all I can say. Oh, Enjolras, you look pale. I know this is a lot to take in, but . . ."

Jacques's head hurt and his legs still felt shaky. Now he recalled that Marius did like to talk. He almost jumped when Marius suddenly let out a loud, "Oh!"

"Marius, what is going on?"

"I forgot! There is someone I want you to see." He grabbed Jacques by the hand and dragged him into the carriage waiting close by. Jacques's heart leaped as a streak of hope went through him. Perhaps one of the others had survived? Perhaps Jean-Marie . . .? But no, he did remember Cosette, and Marius must want to introduce him to her. He settled into the carriage seat beside Marius. Everything was happening so quickly and his brain was still trying to catch up. Marius was alive. Jacques had never been close to the boy, but he was glad he had survived, if no one else. He could not say he looked forward to meeting his wife, however. He did not care much for women. He had often felt he was the only one of his friends who felt that way. No, he mustn't think of them, not now, not with Marius . . .

They soon arrived at a modest apartment building. Marius ushered Jacques inside and up to the second floor. When he opened the door, a pretty young women in a pink dress rustled over to them, eyes bright. "Enjolras," said Marius, "this is my wife, Cosette. Cosette, this is M. Enjolras, the leader of Les Amis."

Jacques felt sick, but he managed a noncommittal smile and kissed Mm. Pontmercy's hand. She blushed and turned away. Feeling awkward, Jacques thought about excusing himself, though he did not know where he would go – where was there to go? He wondered if he still had his apartment, or if he had been counted dead along with the others, and all his belongings were sold or thrown into the street.

"Oh, he'll want to see him, won't he?" Mm. Pontmercy exclaimed, drawing Jacques back to reality.

"Yes, I completely forgot!" cried Marius. "Come, Enjolras." He strode past Jacques and down the hall. Jacques stared after him, confused. What was the Pontmercy boy up to now?

"Go with him," Mm. Pontmercy urged, giving him a small smile.

Marius stopped in front of a door, and looked back at Jacques, who still stood stiff where he first entered. "Come, Enjolras. It's nothing to worry about . . . well, that is . . . you mustn't be too shocked, but you need to see him."

"'Him'?" Jacques looked from Mm. Pontmercy to Marius, wishing with every moment that he could run away.

Marius heaved a sigh, returned to where Jacques stood, took his arm, and dragged him back down the hall to the door. "Now, like I said, do not be too shocked, you might . . . is he asleep, dear?" he called back to his wife.

"No, I just fed him."

Marius nodded and continued. "Yes. So, care that you do not startle him. He will not recognize you – he did not recognize me – but . . . you will see."

"Marius, what on earth are you blathering about?"

Marius did not answer, but opened the door. Jacques remained in the doorway. Marius nodded inside. "Well, go on." Reluctant, Jacques stepped into the room.

* * *

**First names:**

**Jacques Enjolras**

**Jean-Marie Combeferre**

**Henri Courfeyrac**

**Sacha-Josef Feuilly**

**Barthélémy Joly**

**René Bahorel**

**Mathieu Grantaire**

**Fernand Laigle**


	2. Chapter 2

The room was sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a dresser, and a chair. It took Jacques a moment to see the small figure lying in the bed, almost swallowed up by the pillows propping him up, staring at him. He caught his breath and took a staggered step backwards into Marius, who grasped his shoulders. "F-Feuilly?" he whispered.

The man in the bed barely resembled Sacha-Josef Feuilly anymore, what with the ash-colored translucent skin, hollow eyes, and vacant expression. His head was bandaged. But to Jacques, he looked at the peak of health. The last he had seen of the fan-maker was that long-ago day when he knelt in the street, unconscious and leaning his bloody head on Joly's shoulder. Jacques fairly lunged toward the bed, and Feuilly retreated into the pillows, his expression becoming more wary. "Sacha," Jacques whispered, stopping short. "I'm so glad you're alive. H-how?"

Feuilly did not answer, but kept his painfully mistrustful gaze on Jacques. Unbidden, anger, frustration, and something else Jacques could not name surged inside of him. He whirled on Marius. "What is the matter with him?"

"His head," Marius said in a low voice. "The doctor – the one Cosette's father hired, and is still paying for, though he lives elsewhere – said that this was to be expected. His brain was wounded . . . very badly, you must understand. He said . . . he would not be himself anymore."

This did not satisfy Jacques and he half wanted to go over to Feuilly and shake him by his thin shoulders until he regained his sense, but Marius maneuvered him out of the room before he could make up his mind. Once they had returned to the parlor, Marius sat down in one of chairs by the window, but Jacques stood by the wall, glaring at nothing in particular.

"Sit, Enjolras," Marius begged. "Cosette will make us some tea, and I can explain everything."

Jacques pursed his lips, but sat down opposite Marius. From there, he could see out the window at the tree growing right outside. Between the leaves, he could see a hazy blue sky. He continued glaring.

"So, as it happened, after I was shot down, Cosette's father – M. Fauchelevant – well, he took me up and entered the sewers by the side of the Corinth. Grace of God, yes. Well, he was making his way through the sewers, listening to the sounds above – I was unconscious, if you remember. Then, as he passed a grate, he heard a different, louder sound. It was an officer telling his subordinate to finish off some captured insurgents. Well, M. Fauchelevant, being the angel he is, could not leave them to their fate, so he set me down in the filth, removed the grate, pulled himself through, and addressed the soldier. The soldier, as you can imagine, was quite taken aback by seeing this giant of a man, covered in black filth, emerge from the bowels of the street. Thereupon, M. Fauchelevant told him to leave, and tell his superior he had killed the rebels, while he, M. Fauchelevant, would take care of them. The soldier – he must have been terribly frightened – agreed, gave his gun to him, and ran off. Then M. Fauchelevant, he fired the gun three times into the street. He pulled our friends back down into the sewers, one by one. I was told that there were three of them -"

"Combeferre, Joly, and Feuilly," Jacques cut in.

Marius frowned a little, but nodded. "Yes, those three."

Mm. Pontmercy came in at that moment, bearing a tray with a teapot, cups, cream, and sugar. She set the tray on the table between the men and left. Marius smiled after her, then turned back to Jacques as he poured tea into the two cups. "Joly and Feuilly were unconscious, but Combeferre, well, he told M. Fauchelevant that he would only slow him down and that he should go and save the others, and then . . ." Marius' voice dropped. Jacques' heart dropped into his stomach. "He died, Enjolras." Pause. "I'm sorry."

"No . . ." Jacques leaned over in the chair, hands covering his face. He had known – even when Marius had awoken hope in him – always known it. There was no ending where Jean-Marie Combeferre survived.

"Enjolras . . .?"

He lifted his head, blinking back the tears threatening to come out, pulling his lips into a strained line. "Go on."

Marius did not look convinced, but after taking a sip from his cup, he went on anyway. "Cosette's father is very strong, as you must have witnessed back at the . . . at the barricade, but he could only carry two of us at a time. It took him a very long time to get through the sewers, first carrying two of us a ways, setting us down, then returning for the last. But in the end, he managed to escape those dungeons which are the sewers, and he first returned me to my grandfather's house, before going back to his own place. There, my sweet Cosette and her father did everything they could for Joly and Feuilly. M. Fauchevelant even called in one of the best doctors in Paris to tend to them. But . . ."

Jacques knew what was coming, but he still leaned over his knees and stared at the floor, feeling numb.

"Joly's wounds were too severe. He did not make it."

When Marius did not go on, Jacques nodded in an exaggerated manner to let him know he could continue, irritation simmering within him even as the tears surfaced once more.

"Well, there's really nothing much else left to say. Feuilly eventually woke up, but as you saw, he does not remember anything, not even us, his friends. He is still slowly recovering, but the doctor says he has stabilized, and should be able to leave his room soon . . . though he will never be quite the same again . . ."

"I need to go," said Jacques standing up, not looking at Marius.

Marius stood as well. "But, Enjolras – well, if you like, you may stay with Cosette and I if . . ."

"I do not need your charity." Jacques inwardly cursed himself. He sounded like Sacha-Josef. That reminded him, though, that Marius had bailed him out. He would have to pay him back, later.

"It is not -"

"Goodbye, Marius. I am glad that you are well. Say goodbye to your wife for me." Jacques opened the door to the apartment and strode out as fast as he could.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for the reviews! And to answer my Guest's question, this is a different universe from the one I usually write in. I see this as my more "mature" one, if that makes any sense. Maybe you will disagree. :p**

**That being said, I'm sorry this installation is so short!**

**Much love,**

**Unicadia**

* * *

Jacques returned to his old apartment. All his things were gone, sold or thrown out, but he found he didn't care. He renewed his contract with the landlady. He shaved, bought more books, and let his professors know he was still alive. He knew if he was left alone with his mind, left to think, he would would not find the will to go on. So, he shut out the world without and launched himself into his studies. And when he had finished all his work for his classes a month in a advance, he wrote, though something kept him from publishing any of it. He wrote – about the king, about the widows, about the orphans, about the barricades, about those whom the world would forget and would pass without a trace if no one stepped up to mark them . . .

But always, in the back of his mind, he could not forget Feuilly's eyes staring up at him from the swell of pillows, dead and wary, so unlike the sharp hazel spheres that could once cut through skin and soul alike.

And that was how Jacques found himself standing outside of Marius' door once again, stiff and uncertain, on the verge of changing his mind and returning to his apartment.

The door opened a crack, then swung open, Marius' shocked face greeting him. "Enjolras! What are you -"

"Hello, Marius. I came to . . . May I . . . May I see him?"

Marius brightened. "Oh, yes, certainly! Come on in . . . Do you want tea? Cosette, darling, make us some tea!"

"That will not be necessary," cut in Jacques, walking past Marius into the parlor. "Is he awake?"

"Yes." Marius nodded at the door down the hall. "You may go in."

Jacques walked over to it, took a deep breath, then eased the door open. "Feuilly?"

He looked the same as last time. As Jacques approached the bed, he shrank back into the pillows as before, eyes wide with mistrust as he came closer. Jacques could feel his irritation rising again, but he suppressed it, and sat on the edge of the bed. Feuilly stared at him, unmoving.

"So . . . Feuilly."

No response.

Jacques looked away from him and took another deep breath. "Marius tells me you don't recognize me." He licked his lips. This felt so wrong, talking to Sacha-Josef like this. It did not even feel like he was actually talking to him. "It's me. Jacques Enjolras. You and the . . . the others called me your chief. Remember?" He glanced at the fan-maker.

No change. No response. Sacha-Josef had always been serious, slow to smile, difficult to talk to, awkward around all except his closet friends. But he also had a myriad of expressions, constantly changing, and they had all learned to understand him better through the slant of his eyebrows, the depth of his eyes, the twitch of mouth. He never looked like this soulless shell that stared at Jacques from the bed.

The irritation turned to anger. Jacques faced Feuilly. "Well? Don't you? Don't you remember those late nights, discussing Paris, discussing the people, your people?" His voice rose. "Don't you remember the drinks, the jokes, the games, those _beautiful_ drawings you were always scribbling out? Well? Don't you?"

Feuilly still stared at him, still dead.

Jacques leaped to his feet, leaned close to Feuilly's face. He was yelling now, tears streaming down his face. "Don't you remember, Sacha? Do you remember Henri and René and Barthélémy and Jehan and Mathieu and Bossuet and Jean-Marie? Speak! Tell me! Do you remember!"

Jacques heard the door open behind him, but he kept yelling. "Do you remember when you sang with Jehan that one time? You sounded like angels! Do you remember when a storm caught us in the middle of a rally and we were running through the rain, you and me, and Barthélémy covering his head with one of your fans?" Feuilly's eyes widened again, something like terror in his vacant eyes, as he pressed himself back into the pillows. But his lips remained shut as though glued together. Jacques felt arms grasping his shoulders pulling him away from the bed, heard Marius' voice, but he ignored him. "Do you remember drawing on the table in the Musain? Do you remember helping that gamine collapsed outside? You carried her in and kissed her forehead, surprising us all! I remember! Do you? Do you, Sacha? Do you?"

Marius wrestled Jacques back into the hallway and slammed the door shut behind them. Jacques stopped screaming, but he bent over, gasping for breath, trembling, grief and anger racking through his body, but subsiding. Marius stared at him, also breathing hard, his eyes round. Neither man spoke for a long time.

After a while, Jacques whispered, "Does . . . he . . . talk?"

Marius shook his head. "He hasn't spoken a word since the barricade."

Marius' words ripped through Jacques like a knife. Sacha-Josef – serious, talented, passionate Sacha-Josef was gone, like all the others.

Jacques left.


	4. Chapter 4

**megSUPERFAN: The reason for the title will be revealed in due time. :)**

**Thanks to all my reviewers! And I added a section at the end of the first chapter that lists all the first names for those who are confused. :)**

**Much love,**

**Unicadia**

* * *

And still, and yet, he could not forget.

The next time he appeared on Marius' doorstep, he brought a set of paints, brushes, and a sheaf of paper. "Maybe he will remember if he tries painting again," he explained to Marius.

"What a genius idea, Enjolras!" Marius cried, though he did not look like he thought it would work.

Not a terribly genius idea, but that Pontmercy boy was always a little slow. Jacques hesitated a long while before he dared entering the room, remembering his outburst from last time. He opened the door, quiet and slow. Feuilly cowered again when he saw him, but Jacques still came up to the bed with his burden. He arranged the sheaf of paper on Feuilly's lap, the paints beside it. He took one of the brushes and held it out to the fan-maker, but Feuilly stared blankly at it. Jacques took his hand, placed the brush in his palm, and curled his fingers around it. Feuilly continued staring at it, then looked up at Jacques, the wariness replaced by the vacant expression Jacques had seen the first day he came in.

"You used to paint, Sacha," Jacques whispered, willing his voice to remain steady. "You made fans for a living, but you loved to paint anything and everything." He paused. "You also liked to draw. Perhaps you would rather draw?" He took the brush back and moved the paints onto the dresser. He fumbled around in his satchel for a pencil, then placed it in Feuilly's hand. Jacques pointed to the paper still in front of him. "Draw, Sacha." He sounded a like a parent, commanding his child to obey. Sacha-Josef was no child. But this – _thing –_ in front of him almost felt like one.

Feuilly looked at the pencil, turned it around in his fingers, then let it drop onto the paper.

Jacques left, but the paper and paints remained in the room.

* * *

"What if we take him to the barricade?" Jacques told Marius the next time he visited, as they drank Mm. Pontmercy's tea in the parlor.

Marius frowned over his cup. "Have you been back there, Enjolras?"

". . . No." A pause. "Have you?"

Marius set down his cup. "Yes. Twice. But it's all cleared away now. Except that the Corinth is abandoned, with a few street urchins who like to haunt it – not to mention some bullet marks on the surrounding buildings, and Feuilly's carving in the wall, it does not look like anything ever happened there."

_ Jacques gazed down at the words Feuilly had carved into the wall: Vivant les peuples!_

_ "You think they will come, Feuilly?"_

_ Feuilly did not look at him."As much as I love my people, they are unpredictable."_

_ "So you lack faith in them?"_

_ Now he looked at him, with that slow smile. "No, but I fear they lack courage."_

_ "Well, we shall see tomorrow."_

And tomorrow never came.

Jacques sighed. "Yes, but perhaps going back there, seeing where it happened, seeing the words he carved, perhaps that will stir his memories."

"Enjolras. I know you want to help him. But . . . I don't think he's there anymore. The doctor said he -"

"I will not give up on him."

Marius shrugged. "Very well. I supposed we can try. The doctor says he can leave his room now . . ."

Jacques did not tell Marius, but he also wanted to see the place where his world broke apart, but he did not want to go alone. He could not tell Marius that.

* * *

They chose a bright day washed in sunlight to take Feuilly to the scene of the young revolutionaries' demise. Jacques remained apprehensive as he and Marius helped the invalid out of the bed. Feuilly wobbled a little and needed the two of them on either side of him to remain upright. He still showed no emotion, and he never spoke.

Slowly, painfully, they shuffled out of the room, down the hall, down the flight of stairs to the first floor. Jacques opened the door and helped Feuilly over the step. They stopped there, the three of them, and looked about. Light flooded and pooled around them, dappling the pavement through the boughs of the guardian trees. Feuilly blinked at it all, his lips parted ever so slightly. Jacques watched him, his heart in his mouth. But then Feuilly sealed his lips again, and Jacques sighed.

They crossed through the Luxembourg Park, passing beneath the silent trees, ignoring the stares of the strollers and the gawking children. Jacques felt like they would never come to the end of the park. The tiny, uncertain steps went on and on, and Jacques could not help feeling like he was escorting a very old and infirm man rather than his friend . . . how old was Feuilly, anyway? Why had he never bothered asking him? He wondered if Marius knew, though he had attended barely two meetings altogether. Still, he had the impression that the Pontmercy boy possessed more concern for the individual than he did – he who cared only for the populace as a whole.

"Marius," he said, careful, over Feuilly's auburn head, "do you know how old he is?"

Marius appeared vaguely amused by the question, and smiled. "I believe he is almost 29."

Jacques turned away, feeling idiotic. He had guessed the fan-maker was in his thirties.

They soon left the park, and continued making their way down the narrow Paris roads, past the Place de la Bastille, past the great stone elephant that Gavroche once haunted, to the rickety street that ended with the old wine shop, the Corinth. Jacques' heart beat faster as they approached it, but at the head of the street, Feuilly planted his feet on the paving-stones and refused to take another step. Jacques and Marius gave his arms a gentle tug, but he did not move.

"Come, Sacha-Josef," Jacques whispered, cursing in his head. "It's all right. We all went through it. We can get through this."

Feuilly still did not move. He looked terrified. Jacques wondered, with some irritation, if that was the only emotion he was capable of showing. Jacques pulled harder on his arm. "Come _on_."

"Enjolras . . . we should let him be," Marius cut in. "Maybe we can come back later. At the very least, this shows he remembers something."

A rush of emotions passed through Jacques – anger, frustration, irritation, guilt, grief – and then they were gone. He nodded, tired and defeated. The words came out, quiet and hurtful. "You're right."


	5. Chapter 5

Jacques visited Feuilly every day. He and Marius took the fan-maker on more walks, though never back to the street with the Corinth. Feuilly grew stronger, and soon was able to walk without help. He no longer wore bandages on his head, and Jacques thought his eyes looked somewhat clearer, but he wasn't always sure. Feuilly remained speechless and expressionless – always excepting when he showed terror, which was becoming less and less frequent. Jacques did not know how he felt about that. Part of him thought that some emotion – even a negative one – was better than no emotion. But he did not say that to Marius.

What pained Jacques most of all, though, was the fact that Feuilly still did not seem to recognize either him or Marius. He was more comfortable with Jacques now, but the kind of familiarity he showed him did not seem to be because he remembered him, but simply because he was used to seeing the strange, tall, blond man who kept visiting him.

Nearly a year passed since Marius bailed Jacques out from the prison.

"Let's try again," Jacques told Marius. "Let's take him back to the Corinth."

Marius squirmed and would not look Jacques in the eyes. "I'm starting to think it might do more harm than good, Enjolras. Maybe it's for the best that he just forgets about it all. He may be happi-"

Jacques glared at Marius, the same glare that once shut up a blathering drunk Grantaire and a raging Bahorel on the warpath. "Don't you dare," he hissed. "He may not remember the horror of the barricade, but he also knows nothing of himself or his friends. Would you call that happiness, Marius?"

Marius remained silent.

"We'll take him one last time. And if he still refuses to go – well, I won't try again. What say you to that?"

Marius looked up at him, a small smile on his lips. "Agreed."

The next couple days stormed, so they had to delay their outing almost an entire week. They finally set out on a gray Saturday, coats pulled tight around them, walking around the puddles settling in the cobblestones. Feuilly walked between Jacques and Marius, hands in pockets, staring at the sky. Jacques glanced at him every so often. To anyone who did not know Feuilly, he looked, for all intents and purposes, perfectly adjusted and normal. His head wound had left an ugly scar on his forehead, but his long auburn bangs covered it nicely. His eyes lacked warmth, but to the outside observer, he simply appeared to be a very serious young man. Jacques missed his characteristic walk, a slow lope mixed with a swagger – oh, what had Grantaire called it? The Feuilly Stride? That was it.

They soon came to the street of the Corinth. Once again, Feuilly stopped at the head, eyes wide, jaw tight. The hole in Jacques' stomach ached, but this time, he felt only grief, not impatience.

"Come, Sacha," he whispered. "It will be all right. Marius and I will be right here with you. We won't leave you."

Feuilly looked at Jacques a long time, his body slowly relaxing. Then he took a step forward. Marius gasped. Jacques stared at Feuilly. Then he smiled. He found he couldn't stop smiling. _Like an idiot_, he thought. _Like Henri. _But he didn't care.

The three of them continued down the street. Jacques' smile faded as the memories flooded back in with every brick, wood panel, and cobblestone. They came to the place where the National Guard had camped out, firing their taunts and rifles and cannons at their little barricade of dreams. Jacques could not help but glance at the wall where they had executed Jean Prouvaire, and felt his heart tremble. He looked at the others. Marius' face was grim, but Feuilly looked as he always did.

They approached the Corinth. The barricade was gone, though the edges of the street by the buildings contained more rubbish than the rest of it. They paused by the wall that Feuilly himself had carved the words "Vivant les peuples!" into. Jacques grasped Feuilly's shoulders and made him face the wall.

"Look. You did that. Do you remember?"

Feuilly stared at the wall, then looked over at Jacques, unchanged.

They went on.

They came to the Corinth itself. The paving stones were a slightly darker color there than the others. Jacques tried not to think about what this meant, but unbidden, the haunting image of Jean-Marie and Henri stumbling toward the wine shop filled his mind. Tears threatened to come out, and he angrily lengthened his stride toward the doorway of the Corinth. He stopped just inside as the other two caught up with him. He gazed into the dark, musty interior, feeling his heart-rate rise. He turned, and saw Marius and Feuilly close behind him.

They walked in.

There was not much to look at. The light streaming in from the doorway and through the broken windows illuminated the first few feet of the main room, revealing the shattered tables and chairs, but the back of the shop remained lost in shadows. Jacques caught another scent beneath the must, an unusual smell. He wandered around the room, pausing once to look up at the chopped-off stairs, remembering as he had stood on the second floor, so long ago, Grantaire's body beside him, waiting for the welcomed bullets to carry him back to his friends. But they had never come. The officer had shouted an order, "We're taking the leader alive." Jacques had stood in shocked silence, too numb to fight back as the soldier had shoved him forward, made him climb down the remains of the stairs, past the bodies of Henri and Fernand, and out into the blinding June sunlight.

Jacques felt Marius' hand on his shoulder and he let out a long breath as he returned to the present. He looked over at Feuilly. Surely he remembered something. Surely he remembered when he had fallen off the barricade, a soldier nearly on top of him, then scrambled to his feet, whirled on his attacker, and jammed the butt of his rifle into his stomach. That was the last Jacques had seen of him until they had been brought out beyond the barricade along with Barthélémy and Jean-Marie . . .

Jacques expected something from Feuilly, a look of recognition, a gasp, a word, _anything. _

Feuilly.

Did absolutely nothing.

Jacques sank against the wall, and this time he let the tears flow. Marius was right. Sacha-Josef Feuilly was gone forever. He had tried everything and nothing had worked. He had failed. The people had not come, the barricade had fallen, and everyone had died, along with their Dream. The last shreds of hope faded away, leaving him with the dead, expressionless eyes of one of the men he had once respected the most.

At last, the tears subsided, and Jacques straightened, feeling a little stupid. What a fine leader he made, even though he had nothing left to lead anymore. Without another look at Marius, Feuilly, or the Corinth, he strode back out into the light.

The three of them walked back up the street as silently as they had come down it. Jacques kept his head down, not thinking anything, not anymore.

"Jehan."

Jacques stopped. He lifted his head and turned. Feuilly had stopped and was staring at a wall. The wall Jean Prouvaire had been executed at. His lips were parted ever so slightly, his eyes round – not in terror, but grief. Jacques glanced at Marius, wondering if he heard right. Marius looked shocked, confirming it. Slowly, they both turned back toward Feuilly.

The fan-maker stood very still for a long while, but then he began trembling, a little at first, and then more violently. With shaking legs, he knelt in the street. Then the tears came. They ran from his wide hazel eyes, down his cheeks, catching on his chin, and dripping onto the cobblestones. Jacques' mind whirled. He had never seen Sacha-Josef Feuilly cry. Ever. He had long since – since before the barricade – thought him incapable of it. He did not make a sound, but the tears fell like rain on barren land. And Jacques and Marius stood on either side of him. Jacques felt numb with shock, but also something else.

A strange sort of joy.

* * *

Sacha-Josef Feuilly eventually began painting again. While Jacques was always skeptical about it, saying that it was more from them forcing the art upon him, Marius always said that it was because he remembered how to do it. Feuilly remained in the Pontmercy household, making beautiful paintings of flowers and birds – and an occasional moth – which Jacques sold to the Parisian shops. The money went to a head doctor to see if he could help Feuilly's memory, but the fan-maker died from complications a few years after the barricade without fully recovering. But as Marius said, he died happy and in the company of his friends. Jacques wished he could have done more, but maybe he didn't need to. Maybe that visit to the barricade was all that Sacha-Josef Feuilly needed. And maybe that one word – the one word that Feuilly ever spoke after the revolution – was all that Jacques needed.

Jehan.

* * *

**Thank you for reading my little story, and thank you also for all the reviews! They mean a lot to me. :) Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!**

**Much love,**

**Unicadia**


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